Crimson
by Ithilmir
Summary: Chapter 2. At last. Originally posted in response to JenValjean's Hallowe'en challenge. AU. Bit of a Dracula crossover.
1. The Arrest of a Courtesan

**A/N:** I know this has been done before, but I wanted a go. Only fair. Told somewhat in the style of "Dracula" via diary entries & such. Mainly Javert & policemen to start off with, but others will come into it – promise!

N.B. I lost my original version due to a faulty memory stick. I was NOT happy. Most of this was (re)written after I'd read the book "Dracula" and seen a _lot_ of vampire movies. So if you notice a few similarities don't be surprised – there is only so much vampire lore you can use or invent yourself.

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1. The Arrest of a Courtesan

Paris – 1829

Extract from _Le Matin_, 17th August

**CIVIL SERVICE MURDER SHOCK**

The body of M. Alphonse Brumaire, an elderly gentleman of 67 & ex-civil servant, was discovered horribly mutilated in the early hours of this morning at his house in the rue du Grand Cavalier.  
Recently retired from his position as head of his department, M. Brumaire was well known amongst the more fashionable social circles of the city, famous for his witty conversation and astute ability to entertain friends in style. He will be greatly missed by many.  
Information obtained from the police include the details that his throat had been torn open causing M. Brumaire to bleed to death; a method both outrageous and shocking in its brutality.  
Even more extraordinarily, it is said a young woman has been arrested by the police after having confessed to the murder. Servants confirmed that they saw her leave the house shortly after the time the crime was thought to have been committed. Apparently she was reputed to have accompanied the gentleman home after he had spent the night at his club. It is unknown what connection she may have had with the late M. Brumaire; but from the description of her conduct & dress it is suspected she is of questionable morals, thought to be one of those many young woman whose trade is to provide 'entertainment' of sorts to wealthy patrons. Servants, colleagues and family insist that M. Brumaire was nothing but the most moral of men, and that any insinuations of misconduct are completely absurd. It is the opinion of the police, however, that if the woman were indeed there on a matter of 'business' "The gentleman had it coming to him."

* * *

Personal Notes; Brumaire Case – Inspector P. A. Javert

_17th August, '29_ – Bloody press. As if this case were not difficult enough to handle, we now have the added bonus of the bourgeois baying at us for being 'insensitive boars'. Again. One of these days I might actually get left alone to do my job... then I suppose sheep will start driving carts.

Difficult. Ha! What could be difficult about a murder that the murderer confesses to almost immediately? Why is it difficult when the servants confirm they saw said murderer leave & enter the house? What could be difficult about the fact said murderer is a mad courtesan who probably killed the old man for his money? Looking at these facts a conviction should be simple – and will be simple. But to me… I shouldn't be picky – I can't afford to be in this job – but there's just something nagging at the back of my mind; and it won't go away. I saw the state of the old man's corpse; I saw his throat torn open. Not cleanly as if by a knife, but actually torn as if someone had ripped into the flesh and just pulled the skin apart with their hands, and there's no way that _fille de joie_ could ever possess the strength. Or the wit. Could I have missed something? Possible.

At the moment we're holding her in the cells before she's transported to the Madelonnettes. To be honest I can't wait to be shot of her; she's completely insane. Still, it's only for a few days & we're keeping her separate from the others down there. Shouldn't be too bad.

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_18th August, '29_ – Apparently it's taking some time to get the paperwork sorted to transfer the prostitute to the Madelonnettes. I just hope it doesn't take that long – cells aren't meant to be permanent housing for criminals. Personally I think an asylum would be a better place than the Madelonnettes; the woman's barking!

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19th August, '29 – A prisoner has died. Some strange disease that came suddenly in the night and robbed him of life. The doctor determined the cause of death was due to the loss of a vast amount of blood; but there is no sign of any around the cell or on his clothing, and there seems to be no obvious wound that could have caused him to bleed to death. There was, however, some strange mark on his neck – something of a bite. The doctor is as baffled as I am. Still, I suppose it's one less criminal to worry about…

It's odd though; in all my years of service both in Toulon, Montreuil and here I have never had a prisoner die on my watch. Never. I don't know what it is, but this somehow makes me uneasy. Not so much on seeing a dead man (I've seen plenty of corpses in my time) nor out of pity; just the fact that it happened. I mean, prisoners do die; I _shouldn't_ be surprised… Hope it was a one off.

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_20th August, '29_ – Another one. Perfectly healthy young man; no more than twenty-three – arrested on suspicion of theft. Same inexplicable loss of blood, same wound on the neck, same absence of any blood on the body or in the cell. I have questioned those others who were being held with him. They say nothing.

That blasted prostitute is still here. I was told something about the family of the deceased Brumaire kicking up a fuss. The sooner she goes the better – most of the men won't go near her now; say they don't want to touch 'that mad bitch'. I hate to admit it, but she is starting to seriously wear on _my_ nerves. When she confessed to the murder of Brumaire she was laughing. Laughing. We ask for her name and details, she smiles. We tell her she has nothing but the blade to expect and she laughs. We tell her to shut up and she starts singing childishly. I am at my wits end as to how to deal with her. If this continues much longer I swear I will go down there and forcibly gag her!

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_21st August, '29_ – This is intolerable! I go thirty years without a single prisoner dying on my hands and now three! Three in as many nights! A drunkard this time; bunged in there for disturbing the peace. Same blood loss, same mark, not a trace of blood. I can't understand it; blood does _not_ evaporate into thin air – God help us all if it did! To leave the body it has to go somewhere, and I reason that lot downstairs know a damn sight more than they're willing to admit. But I'm telling you, it stops here and now! Prisoners dying of their own accord is one thing; but I will not tolerate murder! And yes, it is murder; I know it is. The silence of the criminals, the doctor's befuddlement, the mark, the lack of blood… Alright, maybe I can't explain the mark & lack of blood; but it all comes together in my mind to form one conclusion.

Tonight I will set a watch on the cells; get one of the sergeants to stay down there and observe any goings on. Let's see if another one dares "fall ill" when there's an armed police officer present!

_Later._  
I despair. I really do. Am I or am I not the senior officer around here? Apparently not anymore as far as the sergeants are concerned – they now see fit to refuse to follow orders. I told one of the younger lads, Gilbien I think it was, he was going to keep watch on the cells for the night, and what was the reply? –

"No, sir!"

For a minute I didn't believe what I was hearing. I fixed him with one of my more severe glares.

"_What_ did you say, sergeant?"

"No, sir!" came the reply again. He had gone a funny shade of grey and was visibly quaking in his boots. This was new.  
"Sergeant," I said, still keeping eye contact. "What is my rank?"

"Inspector, sir."

"And what is yours?"

"Sergeant-de-ville, sir."

"And what does a sergeant-de-ville do when an inspector gives an order?"

Here the boy swallowed. When he spoke his voice quavered. "He follows it – sir!"

"_Well?_"

"I'm not going down there, and you can't make me, sir!"

My fury could not be described. I can usually rely on Gilbien to do as he's told with reasonable competence; but he was clearly frightened out of his wits (near pissing himself I'd say) and yet refusing to obey a direct order.  
Whilst this had been going on the rest of the office had gone silent, the other men having turned to watch. It was at this point as I was about to give him an earful that another sergeant came to his defence.

"Don't make him go down there, inspector," he pleaded. "Not to stay there all night!"

This was definitely going from bad to worse. I turned my gaze on him.

"And why is that?"

"Because… because of what's down there, sir."

My fury melted away to disbelief. My jaw dropped.

"For God's sake!" I exclaimed. "What is there to be afraid of? It's the cells! You've been down there hundreds of times!"

"But, but haven't you heard the voices, sir?"

At this I frowned. It was clear he was not talking about the prisoners.

"Voices? What voices?"

"Voices in the dark," he said, fear clearly detectable in his voice. "Voices that whisper, and a sensation of coldness – it eats through your soul, sir!"

Voices. Ghosts. They thought there were ghosts in the cells. Brilliant. I may have four murders on my hands, three of which taken place in this very post, and now my sergeants start believing in ghosts! Could the week get any worse?

"No," I said firmly, folding my arms. "I have not heard these 'voices', nor have I felt a soul-consuming 'coldness' as you put it. Maybe you'd do better to keep the stove down there stoked up, sergeant."

Somewhere in the background I heard the murmured comment _"'has no soul!" _I let out a hefty sigh as I surveyed the rest of the men.

"Let me guess; no one else will go down there?"

Every one of them shook their heads. Anger once again rose in my veins, and this time I couldn't contain it.

"Then go cry off to your mothers!" I bellowed. "You lot are a bloody disgrace! Sergeant Gilbien, I have ordered you to watch the cells – so get your good-for-nothing arse down there! _NOW!_"

I am writing this as I sit in the chair next to the entrance to the cells. It is only about 11 o'clock and the night will be a long one; but I can tell you it cannot go too quickly. That bloody stove wouldn't warm a hedgehog. I can't help thinking though; the blood loss in each of the deceased, those wounds on the neck; like the bite of an animal. But what animal is there in Paris that would be a) large enough & b) able to get into the cells unnoticed in order to suck a prisoner of life? It's unlikely. Impossible. But it had to go _somewhere_.

I shouldn't have to be doing this for Christ's sake – I left these cold, uncomfortable, mind-numbing nights alone back at Toulon; and that's where I was hoping they'd stay! But no, it seems I must reassure my fully-grown sergeants and cosset them like frightened children. However, I'm telling you now; once this accursed night is over I vow I will settle this superstitious nonsense once and for all!

* * *

_Letter, Sister Perpetua, Hôtel Dieu, to M. Chabouillet, Secretary to M. Gisquet._

'28th August.

'Monsieur, –  
'I write to inform you of the recovery of Inspector Javert, whom was placed in our care a week ago after the unfortunate incident that caused his illness. We are pleased to say that he is progressing well and is most anxious to return to his duties. He should be fit for discharge in a couple of days.  
'However, I believe it is my duty to inform you that although the road to recovery was short, it has nonetheless been violent. There were times that when sleeping or in a state of delirium he cried out all manner of mad things; on occasions we feared for his sanity. That saying, he now seems to be more than in the possession of his wits – although I would caution a watchful eye be kept on him for the next few days. Though he is convinced otherwise, his condition may still be fragile, and we advise that he not be returned to full duties before the end of the week.

'Regards,  
'Sister Perpetua, Revd. Mother,Hôtel Dieu.'


	2. Relapse

**A/N: **Yes, I've finally got around to resurrecting this one – excuse the slightly intentional pun. Now comes the tricky bit; trying not to completely rip off _"Dracula"_ whilst making things progress logically. Constructive criticism is welcome. Hint hint.

N.B. Have now spaced out the paragraphs a bit more, since the original layout was not supported by the document manager.

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2. Relapse

Diary – Sergeant Armand Bouchart

_18th August, '29_ – I received Maman's monthly letter today. As usual it complains that I am not writing home often enough and is crammed full of advice such as always to wear a clean shirt, make sure I'm eating well, and not to trust strange women. I would have thought she'd let up a bit after three years, but no; persistent as ever. At least she didn't send me a pair of socks this time.

I also received a letter from Isabelle this morning. All good news I am glad to say; she and Henri married in last month, they've set up together in the Forge, Henri's no longer an apprentice… also that already she is expecting, and before long I shall have a nephew, or indeed niece, to teach bad manners to. I am to be an uncle. The thought is both thrilling and awe-inspiring at the same time. It seems only yesterday we were children playing in front of the fire or running in the fields at home. Now we are both grown; she has a life and family of her own, and I'm here in Paris. I'm due for some leave soon; maybe I will visit them then. I shall write this evening to offer my congratulations.

On other (more unpleasant) business, I have something rather strange to record. I was down in the cells earlier today, as it was my turn to feed the prisoners. As I was going along the rows, I got to the last cell on the right and there was no bowl to fill. The absence of the food dish is usually an indication that the prisoner is sick or dead, so I looked up to check on the occupant. What I saw, to my surprise, instead of the squalid pauper I expected was a healthy, very beautiful young woman; blonde, pale, deep red lips and dark eyes shining eyes in a dress of wine-dark satin. For a moment I couldn't think or move I was so struck by her beauty, it took some time for me to come back to my senses. Clearing my throat, I put down the pot and ladle, took up the keys and entered the cell. The woman was huddled back in a corner, her face blank, her eyes trained on me as I approached her. I don't know why, but her watching me so intently made me nervous. I cleared my throat once more and then addressed her politely, as at that stage I was unaware of her rank or what she was charged with.

"Mademoiselle, are you feeling alright?"

The woman did not move, nor make any reply. She just continued to stare at me in the same manner as before.

"I only ask, ma'amselle, as you do not seem to have eaten anything. Are you ill?"

Once more nothing; no reaction whatsoever. Unsure what else to do, I moved forward to check her forehead for any signs of fever, but as my hand touched her skin I felt not the expected warmth of a body, but coldness almost as ice. I immediately withdrew my hand with a gasp, shocked by the cold, and the woman just stared at me as before; seemingly not disturbed by my presence. How could she be so cold and not have turned blue? She wasn't even shivering.

I came up to office to find Gilbien and Houiller loitering around the stove, whilst Daviot was flicking through the charge book.

"Daviot, what's wrong with the woman in the last cell on the right?"

"What, the blonde tart?" said Houiller, thoroughly engrossed in polishing the buckle of his uniform belt. "Why do you ask?"

Quite predictably, at the word 'tart', Gilbien became interested in the conversation.

"Nothing wrong as far as I can see," he said, grinning. "Quite a looker, in't she?"

"I wouldn't get any ideas if I were you, Jacques," Daviot said placidly, snapping the ledger shut and heaving it off the desk. "She'd sooner rip your balls off as sit on 'em."

"Why? What did she do?"

Daviot looked at me disbelievingly.

"Where've you been for the past two days?" he asked. "Spain? She's the whore from the Brumaire case; ripped the poor bugger's throat right open with her bare hands!"

As I hadn't been into the post since yesterday afternoon, this was pretty much the first I'd heard about the death of M. Brumaire. If I'd known she was a lunatic murderess I wouldn't have gone in there by myself, let alone attempted to touch her!

"She hasn't touched her food," I said, putting the pot of gruel back on the stove. "And she's stone cold."

Houiller took a moment to look up from his polishing and frowned.

"Didn't think it got that cold down there this time of year."

"It isn't," I said. "That's why I was wondering if she was ill. Do you reckon we should get a doctor to look at her?"

"I wouldn't bother," said Daviot, picking up Houiller's tin of metal polish and throwing it up and down in one hand. "She's being transferred to a mental hospital; don't waste money on a doctor when she's going to be swarmed by 'em in a couple of days."

"Just chuck her in an extra blanket," said Houiller, reaching for his polish and finding it not there.

I took Daviot and Houiller's advice and left the whore an extra blanket after entering my observation in the report book. They were right; no point in paying for the expense of a doctor when she'll be in care within days. The fact that she is mad may also explain my earlier unease. I just feel there is something not right about her; not just regarding her dumbness, but… I don't know. I will make it my duty to watch her closely over the next few days. If she does begin to sicken, the last thing we will want is it running through the cells.

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_19th August, '29_ – A man died in the cells last night, from what we don't know. We were just told 'blood loss', but as to how or why the doctor hasn't got a clue. A sad occurrence, but it still remains to be seen if the wounds were the result of some obscure disease or were self-inflicted. It's strange though; I do not recall the sight of any blood around the cell as you would expect when a man bleeds to death.

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_20th August, '29_ – Was called out today to deal with a scuffle outside a tavern. The man who started it claimed the other had insulted his dog. When asked on the whereabouts of his dog, he replied that he didn't own one. I bunged him in for a night in the cells; we'll let him out in the morning when he's sobered up.

Another death in the cells; same as last. The men are troubled and fear an epidemic within the cells. Again, the doctor can give us no explanation, though he does no think they are the result of illness, as both victims were fit and healthy up until the night of their deaths – the latest to go was no more than a lad. The other prisoners down there seem equally, if not more upset as the men; they keep silent and will not utter a word.

The prostitute from the Brumaire case remains as dumb as ever. I have heard her singing nonsense and taunting other guards down there, but whenever I come anywhere near her she becomes as silent and solemn as the grave. So far I've been the only one who dared touch her. She still doesn't eat, and her skin remains cold as that of a corpse. Daviot's threatening to keep me down there permanently just to keep her silent, and by the look on his face when he said it I have a nasty suspicion he wasn't wholly joking.

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_21st August, '29_ – The drunk and disorderly I brought in yesterday is dead. Same as the other two; strange bite, no blood. 'Pontoise' has in the last three days become a name of ill omen; most of the boys are starting to think the place is cursed. Can't blame them really; ghostly voices down in the cells, three mysterious deaths in three nights, the criminals all suddenly bound to silence… I'm one of the few left who will willingly spend any time down there. What's happened here is very much more real than superstition, though. I may be from the provinces, but I'm not stupid.

The Inspector's not very happy about it, that's for sure. It doesn't help having that mad girl down there taunting him either; the look he gave her this morning it wouldn't surprise me if there were another death soon. I checked her bowl again today; she still hasn't eaten, or drunk anything for that matter. And yet she is still as healthy and beautiful as she was three days ago; life in the cells doesn't seem to have touched her at all. After all this death she seems to repulse me more than anything else; how she can smile and laugh and be so… so brazen? She must be completely mad, and what disgusts me even more is that I hate her for it. I hate a mad person as if her actions are her own responsibility. Three years as a gendarme in Paris; I wouldn't have thought anything could disgust or surprise me anymore, but it seems I was wrong. Only when she leaves will I be at peace again, and I swear no other man in post will be able to sleep easy until she is gone.

* * *

Extract from _Le Matin_, 22nd August

**BRUMAIRE KILLER ESCAPES!**

Last night the young woman being held for the murder M. Alphonse Brumaire (67), elderly gentleman ex-civil servant, escaped from police custody after killing several other prisoners and leaving one officer at death's door.  
The woman, an unnamed prostitute, had been held at the police post in the rue Pontoise since the 18th, in the understanding that she was to be transferred to a lunatics' asylum very shortly. However, an inexcusable delay in the administration meant this highly dangerous criminal remained in the cells, and all too soon the effects of this became too clear to the officers. Prisoners started dying of some mysterious 'disease' – an inexplicable loss of blood and wounds on the neck that baffled the surgeon called in – until in three nights three men had perished (It is now thought that the woman somehow gained access to the cells and attacked these three in the same way she attacked M. Brumaire). It was at this point one of the officers, an inspector by the name of Javert, decided to take matters into his own hands and investigate the unknown nature of these attacks. With a commendable sense of duty and nerves of steel, the ill-fated inspector armed himself with a single pistol and set watch on the cells for the night. However, in the early hours of the morning the gendarmes situated in the office above heard a shot. When the men rushed to aid their comrade they found the inspector stretched out of the floor of the cells, blood pouring from a wound in his neck, pistol discharged and still smoking. The prostitute's cell was empty.  
The inspector was taken into care immediately, but has so far not regained consciousness; however from the various elements of the scenario it is easy to conclude that the murderess was to claim her fifth victim, but the inspector managed to fire in time to stop her finishing the job. How exactly she escaped is still a point of debate, but from the three previous deaths it is clear the culprit is something of an expert in moving through closed doors.  
As the life of this brave public servant hangs in the balance, officials are now demanding an explanation as to why this unstable and dangerous person was left so long without the proper care and security measures. Meanwhile the police continue to search for the woman throughout the quarter. Let us hope the gallant inspector's sacrifice was not in vain.

* * *

Diary – Sergeant Armand Bouchart

_22nd August, '29_ – The difference an evening can make. One murder, three deaths, voices, and now Old Indestructible himself gets it! News of the incident got round fast; news regarding the Inspector always does.

Whilst I was out on patrol last night with Houiller, it seems things finally broke over the subject of the cell deaths. Apparently the Inspector wanted an officer to keep an armed watch down there all through the night, but due to the rumour of the 'hauntings', none of the men there would go. If I had been there I would have volunteered in an instant; there is hardly anything I wouldn't do if the Inspector asked me to… But it is no use making statements like that now; I was not there, and it was him who went down, not me. Yes, in a justifiable fit of rage the Inspector armed himself and sat guard over the cells with the intention of ending the 'superstitious nonsense'; only it seems things didn't go the way he planned. At around one o'clock the boys in the office heard a muffled cry, then a shot being fired and ran down immediately to see what had happened.  
They found him lying on the floor unconscious, a deep wound like that of the dead prisoners on his neck leaking blood onto the flagstones, the pistol he had taken with him clasped in his hand; discharged and still smoking.

At first they all assumed the pistol had gone off accidentally, but after he'd been moved they discovered the mad courtesan from the Brumaire case had disappeared. When I went down there later I could find no trace of the bullet; not in the wall, nor on the floor, nor embedded in the ceiling. He must have been shooting at something and, what's more, hit his mark. The woman was locked up for murder, the prisoners died soon after she'd arrived in a similar fashion to how she killed Brumaire; maybe that was whom he was shooting at, in self defence. The way she was carrying on down here it wouldn't surprise me; it would explain where the bullet went, and there's no question to whether he missed. When the Inspector points a firearm, hoping he'll miss is not an option. She must have escaped during the fuss… exactly how, one of us are sure; her cell was still locked and the bars of the window are not in any way damaged. Other then achieving the impossible feat of squeezing her way up the stove pipe there is no conceivable way she could have got out of that room.

A couple of the men have taken him to the Hotel Dieu – I personally would have settled for taking back to his apartment and have his concierge take care of him. The old woman thinks she's his mother anyway; he would have received ample care. But I suppose it is best he is under some kind of care.

There have been orders through that we are to divide into teams and search the entire quarter for the escaped prostitute; it seems that those in authority are quite anxious to have her in custody again. Much good it will do them now with four deaths and an injury to her; she's also got a night ahead of us, which means she could be out of the city and well away by now. The whole thing is one sorry mess; with any luck it will soon be over.

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_25th August, '29_ – Isabelle sent me some sprigs of Artemisia and Angelica left over from her wedding bouquet; one for true love, one for protection against sickness and ill-will. As ever, she wishes me to be married soon and find happiness with another woman. Sister, you are too sweet for your own good.

I paid a visit to the hospital today to check on the Inspector's progress and if possible wish him a speedy recovery. I don't suppose the man would get many visitors, him being as solitary a man as he is. Unfortunately, it seems he will be receiving none, as at the time of my visit today I was told quite adamantly by the sisters that M. Javert was still in no fit state to receive visitors. Apparently he has contracted a violent fever from his wounds and for the good of his own recovery he must not in any way be troubled by unnecessary visits. The sister I got this information out of was also quite doubtful he would be able to hold a coherent conversation with me even if I were admitted. Unable to do anything else I thanked the sisters and left, much perturbed what I have heard. It's been three days now since the attack in the cells; I wouldn't have thought it would take it this long for such a robust man as the Inspector to recover from such a wound as was in his neck – it's not as if he lost too much blood; the men tended to him very quickly. But the fever, this is worrying indeed. I am certain he contracted it from other patients in the hospital, and though I have no doubts he will pull through, there has been so much death related to Pontoise lately that I feel… Maybe this is the turning point; maybe if he can recover it will be the end of Death's reign over our cells. I pray to God it will be so.

Still no sign of the prostitute; didn't expect much. I doubt we'll ever see her again now, and frankly I couldn't care less if we don't. She was more trouble than she is worth, and God willing she'll turn herself up with another misdemeanour on someone else's patch. We're all too glad to see the back of her. Hopefully she is gone for good.

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_28th August, '29_ – Still no news.

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_29th August, '29_ – I do not think I can even begin to find an explanation for what has happened during the course of today. Everything has just been so fantastic that I can barely believe it has happened at all.

I was at the post this morning when a messenger arrived from the Prefecture. Apparently M. Chabouillet went spare when he found out Javert'd taken to the Hotel Dieu; not surprised really, as we know how he has a 'special interest' in his career, an sent orders that two of go and bring him back from there immediately. Not ones to disobey such a direct order, Daviot and myself volunteered to go and fetch him, and within minutes we were at the Hotel Dieu, reporting to the sisters and telling them the nature of our errand. At first they refused us, saying the discharge was out of the question as the patient still required several days rest, but on showing them the Secretary's letter they relented, and we were lead to his ward.

As we approached we could discern raised voices, one of which very familiar. We entered to find the Inspector, fully dressed and booted, pacing the floor by his bed in a fury whilst a doctor, the mother superior and another nun insisting that he was not going anywhere and that he get back into bed immediately. It was hardly the image of a man on 'death's door' we had been expecting.

As we stood astounded in the doorway, the Inspector jerked his head up and noticed us. He immediately halted his pacing and look of frustrated relief swept over his face.

"Daviot! Bouchart! God, who thought I'd ever be so pleased to see you lot! Tell this idiot I'm fit to go."

He had gestured to the doctor, but it was the mother superior who replied.

"Out of the question! This man's condition is still fragile; he is in no fit state to be released from our care!"

"I'll beg your pardon, mother," Daviot pointed out. "But he doesn't look very fragile to me."

"Plus we also have orders direct from M. Chabouillet," I chipped in, presenting the letter to her. "We are here to escort the Inspector back to his apartment."

The mother superior looked at the letter with suspicion, regarding the expression of triumph on Javert's face with distinct distaste. A few minutes later we were outside and walking back in the direction of the rue Pontoise. On my part, I found it amazing that only a few moments before the Inspector had been raging and roaring like all the Furies combined, but now he was walking down the boulevard as immaculate and composed as ever. I often wonder what exactly goes on inside his head. True, he may not be the most talkative or friendly of all people, but you cannot deny the man is a brilliant detective.

We had got a good distance from the Hotel, about halfway to our destination. The Inspector had refused to hail a fiacre, probably still from some desire to prove that he was perfectly fit and well. We had just turned onto one of the many wider and busier boulevards when he suddenly stopped in his tracks, looked around with an intense glare. However, he seemed to dismiss whatever it was that had caught his attention and took another step forward, only to stop again, tilting his head to one side as if listening intently for something.

"Sir?" I questioned. "Shouldn't we be on our way, sir?"

The Inspector started, as if he had forgotten that Daviot and I were there.

"Yes. Yes, we should," he said, clearing his throat and straightening his jacket. But again he paused, the distracted look coming back to his face. He whirled round to look at the other side of the boulevard, and to our amazement the expression of uncertainty changed to one of full-blown panic. Terror of someone or something seemed to transfix him to the spot.

"M. Javert? What is it, sir?"

He raised a shaking hand and pointed into thin air across the boulevard.

"There!" he said hoarsely. "Can't you see?"

"See what?"

"There, standing next to the gaslight! Can't you see?"

Daviot and I looked across to where he was indicating. All we could see was gentle mill of people; bourgeois, merchants, delivery boys going about their business. Nothing out of the ordinary. We turned back to the Inspector, no wiser than before, and starting very much to fear for his welfare.

"Monsieur, perhaps we should be going…"

The Inspector looked at us as if we had in that moment taken leave of our senses. The thought raged through my head was that he'd gone mad; that the delirium that had possessed him only a few days beforehand had returned to destroy him. We had to get him out of sight before he disgraced himself!

The Inspector's gaze snapped back to the other side of the boulevard, and his face seemed to go a shade paler. He stumbled backwards, reeling from some invisible force, his breath coming in gasps. He clutched at the bandage on his neck, thin fingers digging into the material – I feared he was going to rip it away and re-open the wound! It was as if time itself had slowed; every detail, the slightest aspect of the scene in front of me I could see with cool, painful clarity. As if in a dream I saw his eyes unfocus, his head loll to one side and his shoulders slump, eyelids sliding shut as his legs gave way, his coat falling around him like some black, billowing shroud, heard the echoing sigh as the air escaped from his lungs. Somehow, in that awful moment of unnatural contemplation I managed to move, catching him in my arms before his head hit the pavement. He was out cold, red leaking through the bandage on his neck. Alive thank God; but I could not be sure for how long. Daviot ran to hail a fiacre immediately. When we managed to secure one, the driver and we two between us managed to load the unconscious Inspector into the vehicle and proceeded to take him home.

Once seated inside the cab, I took out my handkerchief and pressed it to the bandage on his neck in an attempt the staunch the blood that was now starting to run freely from the wound, made worse by the way his head lolled carelessly with each sway of the fiacre. I did my utmost to conceal it, but inside I was deeply afraid. It was as if I had seen my whole life collapse before me as he fell. I have been stationed in Paris three years now; not long, I grant you, but in that short time I have come to look to the Inspector as someone to aspire to be like. I have never met another man like him, and I doubt I ever will again. He shows no sickness, no weakness, no pain, no fear; but to see him fall, to see terror so clearly in his eyes… I thought that Javert could show me the way to becoming more than a man, how to overcome regret and fear, but it seems I was wrong. It seems none of us are beyond the reach of fear, and even Javert is mortal.

At the moment he is sleeping peacefully, lain out in his own bed, his slightly unhinged concierge taking a close care of him. As soon as I got him home I sent word to the post for some support and sent the concierge with a letter to M. Chabouillet that explained what had happened. We've decided to keep a watch on him until we can fetch a doctor. I have volunteered to stay with him for the first part of the evening, and am writing this entry now as I sit by his bedside. Daviot will be relieving me at eleven. Let us hope nothing else happens between now and tomorrow.


End file.
